


Realms of Possibility

by Hopetohell



Category: Night Hunter (2018)
Genre: Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26846497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: This isn’t for you, it’s for me. And you are going to be good andtakeit.
Relationships: Walter Marshall (Night Hunter)/You
Kudos: 15





	Realms of Possibility

If you needle at him, it’s only to see him crack, to see his jaw tense and push forward as he bites back something he’ll regret, to see the way his hands clench. He doesn’t say it, but just barely. You would, if he said it, if he told you which drawer to open, if he gave you the command that in and of itself would make you wet, would make you feel that tight ache. 

He hasn’t said it yet, but it’s a near thing. 

His curls fall in his face when he grips you by the hair, when his other hand is working your fly open and shoving inside to curl those thick fingers roughly into you. There’s no preamble, no gentleness, only the slick pressure of his hand and the way he withdraws his fingers only so he can smear them messily over your face, so he can hook them into your mouth and pull your jaw open, so he can wrench your head back and lick into your mouth as it’s pinned open for him. 

He is clinging to control by his fingernails. He is clinging, but he is slipping, and if this isn’t the last straw you don’t know what could possibly tip him over the edge. What could drive him farther than this, than the way he stops to wrench your jeans down your legs, to leave you bare below the waist. It makes it so easy for him to stroke between your folds, to build you steadily to a climax that doesn’t come because he _takes his hand away._

It’s cruel, and it makes you scream around the gag of his fingers. It makes you curse, all tangled wet syllables as he’s pressing down on your tongue. It’s 

_what you’ve had coming, isn’t it? I’ve been patient. I’ve been kind. And this is how you repay me?_

His beard scratches red marks up your throat, over your cheek, and you are helpless against the towering strength of him. You’re desperately trying to chase his hand but he won’t let you, will he? 

_This isn’t for you. It’s for me, and you are going to be good and_ take _it._

He lets your mouth go but it’s only so he can grip at your hips more firmly, so he can guide himself inside as you’re desperately trying to brace yourself on the tabletop with your hands. And he is snarling, that face you’ve seen at the end of a case gone sideways, that face that’s translated into little hissing grunts you can feel against your back. 

And you’ll have bruises: lines of fingerprints on your hips, and dark smudges where he drives against you. And surely he’ll look at those marks with regret in the morning; he never quite knows how to reconcile the Walter who strokes your hair and brings you breakfast from that shop you like with the Walter who watches you so carefully so he can find the things that destroy you the most completely. 

_The duality of man,_ you’d told him once, laughing a little. _Fuck, you think I’d stick around if I didn’t like it?_

You like it, sure, but right now you could _kill_ him, if you could do anything beyond gasp for breath and try to hold on tight, to make yourself tense and squeeze to feel his rhythm falter. And _oh,_ whatever goal you had in mind is lost, as he pulls you back against him with a hand around your throat, possessive but somehow still careful. And he is close, he’s holding you up with his other hand under one thigh, _your feet aren’t even touching the ground_ and isn’t _that_ a neat trick. And you don’t come, because he said no, because this is 

_a punishment, when will you learn?_

but _he_ does; when he withdraws it drips sticky down your thigh. And when he puts you bodily over his shoulder and heads toward the bath, you’re trying desperately to rut against him for any friction you can get. His laugh is gentle and becoming kind; this is still a punishment but it will end. And you’re already planning your next move, chasing whatever will send you to pick up a box in a locked drawer in his room. 

And then.

When you wake it’s far too late in the day; your arms are tucked under the pillow and everything aches. And, somehow, there’s still that undercurrent of arousal, of the frustration that lingered when he tucked the sheets around you up to your neck and murmured _no._

And he’s there, calloused hand stroking warm over the swell of your ass. When you turn your head it’s to see the faint frown on his face, the worry lines that deepen as he takes in the bruises he’d left. You snake a hand back to tangle your fingers with his, to squeeze his hand reassuringly as his other hand reaches down to finally, _finally_ take you that last distance, to coax you over the edge with a shuddering sigh. 

The toast he’s brought up is cold and tough now, and he would apologize but. You’re already slithering into the circle of his arms, already reaching up to tug his face down close enough to kiss, to tell him _hey, hey, no, it’s okay. It was absolutely perfect. You know I need it, and god I wouldn’t trust anybody else._


End file.
